Dream
by p020901
Summary: Dead men don't dream. They remember. Tag: future!AU, Grimm War, dark, old Jaune Arc remembering his past.
1. Chapter 1: a prologue

_**Dream.**_

 ** _Summary_ :** Dead men don't dream. They remember.

 _ **Tags**_ : future!AU, Grimm War, dark, old Jaune Arc remembering his past.

 ** _Disclaimer: I own nothing. RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth and the blessed Monty Oum. This is merely a fanwork, and my only profit from this is practice in writings and self-amusement._**

* * *

 _Chapter 01: a prologue on a train._

* * *

It was late into the night. As usual, Jaune Arc, War Hero, General of the Valean Militia, Commander of the First United Corp and legendary Huntsman was diligently going through the countless arduous but necessary processes that keeps an army running. Requisition files and combat plans, reports to read and phone calls to make, logistics to be run and men to be commanded. Shifting probabilities and impossibilities, alternations and changing tactics, the cogs and gears churned behind blue eyes of steel, in muscles of metal and of human flesh constant and unceasing, those of a man forged for and from war that could only be described as somewhere between 'gritted determination' and 'more resembled a machine than man'. A General, a Holy Knight, an Aegis, an Ideal accomplished but not at all wanted; he was many, he was busy, be it with Protection or Death. But not today. Today...

Today, those cogs and gears inside his mind were stopped; not quite stopped but slowed to the point that it didn't differ all that much from stopping. He was not sitting on the too-big commander's chair of his flagship or even the barebone, crowded metal bench of a troop train, but a civillian skytrain, with its' too soft seats and packets of peanuts untouched since ages. Jaune Arc's blue eyes, however, were staring outside the oval bulletproof window of the train all the same, its' inky blackness reflecting his aged face and grayed hair tied into a small tail behind his head. Today, his desk - even if only a tiny desk on a train - was empty; there was no paper on his desk, his laptop was closed shut, put inside a Huntsman-sized brown traveling pack along with a yellow file containing several small and medium sheetlets of papers he so cursed. A white paper cup stood on that desk, the expensive amber liquid inside shaking rhythmically with every shake the carriage made, expanding waves threatening to spill out into the white napkins it was placed on. Next to it sat a similarly-colored glass bottle still lidded and full, waiting patiently as always.

Today...

Today, for the first time in his life he was not busy. No. That would be a small lie; the first time in his later life, later being after his official joining of the United Remnant's army and rapid rise through its ranks, after his adventure with RSJC ended with the Grimm Queen's death, after his forceful drop-off of Beacon Academy after the school went up in flames as with a girl with autumn leaves as hair and summer as eyes and whatever childhood innocence he once held. The first time since even before that when he was not busy with leading men and women to victory or to their deaths.

His 'friends', if they be so called, men and women he hardly knew but for their names and bloody-minded determination to intrude upon his life stemming from either some undue gratefulness or not-undue deep-seated hatred toward him, every year on this day had tried to make him not being busy. But today they had made -sure- of that. Today, they had finally succeeded, permanently; today, for the first time he was not busy, and that left him a lot of time to think. It was best that he not, so at the moment all Jaune Arc was doing was staring outside, his blue eyes trying to make out the nebulas and constellations he had once gazed up in that past-time he'd kept all the way into his early adulthood.

Once. Now, the starless sky of Sanus was all that looked back at him, that broken moon shining its pale, lifeless light onto wild dark woods. Even that light seemed so weak, faded, hidden behind the curtain of the ashen, bitter smog that had swallowed up stars, the curtain made by man. Millions of cubic meters of burnt Dusts and dusts had painted a shade of burgundy in the all-consuming blackness of the night even decades after the war have ended.

The old veteran sat and watched. Jaune Arc sat to the passing landscape, feral and wild that sung of a future to be claimed yet to an old man like him only mourned of price in blood yet to be paid. All he saw was ash. Ash that rained, just less than a decade ago. Ash rained on hair, ash rained on buildings, on empty streets on gravestoned fields and broken nations in a mockery of snow; ash rained on brows, eyelids that could not blink and painted faces of survivors with the whiteness of bones and death. Ash dusted on a white cloak unweaved, ash burning now in his mouth as two lines of tears parted that masque, rolling down his cheeks. Ashes that to him was but yesterday, ashes that the young seemed to so easily forget, or yet to seen.

And that's good. Better, at least, than letting an old man like him out there spoiling those hope and dreams.

The skytrain let out a long, mournful wail, the sound breaking the silence of the night. Flocks of bird parted from the forest below, spots of black that melded into the night. They flew away. Not Grimm then, the knight's hand inched away from Crocea Mors on the seat to his left. _As if he'd be that lucky._

Jaune Arc shifted in his seat, and caught something in that darkened glass. Blond hair and a rugged face, faded scars and blue eyes hard like steel yet not unforgiving and harsh. Blue eyes gazing at somebody as they grew softened, smile on lips shining past the mask of stone.

The man's gloved hand touched the cold glass, and the illusions disappeared, leaving behind his reflection. A frown permanently set in stone, chiseled onto a rough face lined with wrinkles and scars that stayed, like trenches on a battlefield. Hair platinum with age, old eyes stained with blood and jaded with the weight of ghosts haunting them. Eyes that could no longer see the simple beauty of this world. The fires beneath so dim now compared to the bonfires of his innocent youth. His hands did not clench up. Such was the signs of futility, and he refused to be so. But not for the first time in his life, Jaune Arc felt tiredness and age seep into his very bones, and the grimace dipped just that much down.

 _Maybe his friends are right._

The weary man reached his hand inside his coat, in search of something. The many pockets and convents of a Huntsman's coat made it a difficult and long process, but he had time. His hand brushed onto his scroll. A scroll, old and outdated, screen cracked and back scratched with age. He pulled it out to check the time and any important message. None, except for friends inviting him for a drink, those organized together a party back at Beacon. 'Retirement', what a word. He hated it with all his heart, and yet they had already forced him to. What could joining a little party make it any worse.

None of them had even seen him in his sister's dress.

A ghost of a smile flickered at that memory, as quick as it faded. Jaune scrolled through them, until a message dated more than twenty years ago, and he turned the scroll off.

Another try, and he found what he searched for. Two plastic bottles, each the size of a fist which gave a rattling sound when shook. He pressed down and twisted the cap. Blue eyes stared at the screen on the back of the seat before him as two blandly colored pills rolled out and sat in his palm. Innocent. Bitter.

It was time the present catch up to him.

With a hard swallow the old man swallowed them down. A deep drink from the paper cup, burning amber flowing down his throat helped the pills stay there. They weren't poison, they just taste like it to him.

An electronic clock somewhere ticked 1 A.M. Never before had he felt so tired. Jaune put the caps back on the bottles, before he let his head rest on the window panel of the train. Dim eyes watched the scenery go by, until he slowly slip to sleep.

 _You should come home, sometimes._

He still has so, so much time to think, after all.


	2. Chapter 2: a winter storm in Atlas

_**Dream.**_

 _ **Summary:** _Dead men don't dream. They remember.

 ** _Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is merely a fanwork, and my only profit from this is practice in writings and self-amusement. Also heavily inspired by Frostpunk, this chapter._**

* * *

 _Chapter 02: a winter storm in Atlas._

* * *

Jaune Arc dreamt of hoarfrost. Of howling winds that froze metal gears. Frosted steel brittled and cracked, oil froze in pipes, as blood in veins.

Man and faunus trudged onward. Atlas must survive.

 _(Atlas was besieged: that crown jewel of a glorious age now stood before more than just the assault of an endless tide. It had held out for so long, but Svartenvinter had come. Ice and snow had formed Atlas, and now ice and snow would be its end.)_

Four thousand strong, an army marched, not to conquer but to relieve. Airships of steel took off, before the Storm they were Icarus. Soaring wings clipped by razor hail, scattered by the Blackest Winter storm. Turning blades shattered inside frozen turbines, pilots diving to their icy deaths in burning coffins of metal. Ships fell, but men persisted. Gears pulled out from the wreckage of the ship. A prayer for the fallens, and nametags collected. Engines rumbled to life. Their compass pointed only one direction: North.

 _(The Blackest Nights had come. Refugees flooded in from the tundras and cold snow-borne plains, before the trainline was cut or the storm too great to pass through. All bore frostbites and horrid tales of the coming darkness. Ancient Grimm stirred from beneath the ages old ice, despair thawing black sinews and pushed forth frozen bodies.)_

Hail whipped into windscreens, threatening to crack with every gust blown. Headlights cut into the storm, vision less than the transport just in front of them. The thin strip of burgundy plummetted with every mile they took. Men and women huddled around the onboard radiators for every precious puffs of heat. -40°C. And it's only getting worse.

Then the first engines refused to start.

 _(Ice, Dust and steel. That's what Atlas was made of. Ice in eyes and steel in bones, steel forming the great hab-block and domes and skyscrappers that allowed life to grow in that hail-borne scape, ice on the backs of those toiling and laboring day and night inside enormous mining complexes and factories as patricians above them feasted and danced. The stalwart defender looked on with grim eyes, and steeled themselves. Atlas was the Jewel of the North, but a jewel cut is still a jewel, and with a diamond hard-shell the defenders began to dig in.)_

"Damnit!" A man banged his hand fruitlessly to the metal carriage above his head. The red wrench clattered to the feet deep snow. "It's not the engine, it's the fuel! It's all frozen solid inside.".

-60°C. Fuel froze inside pipes. One by one engines of steel sputtered and died with the last puffs of heat from frozen exhaust pipe. Tanks trapped in mud, Walkers in snow, or just simply abandoned, forming little hills in the snow from their carcasses salvaged of all they were worth, like dead whales adrift in an ocean of ice.

Desperate faces turned to him for guidance. Hundreds of pallid face, blue and white with frost.

"...We keep moving." He said. The Dust cores were salvaged. Little balls of fire, lanterns lighting up a precious spot with warmth in the dark. Scores of men huddled around each, as their feet slogged through the metres deep snow.

 _(Food and heat was rationed, distributed to the swelled up populace by cold, faceless algorithms. Minefields laid, floodlights erected and fortifications reinforced with watered sandbags. Glass towers clamped down reinforced shutters, whatever airships left in the once Great Fleet grounded and turned into improvised housings for the refugees. Men and women that never before picked up a sword or gun armed themselves, while trainees and squires swapped their practice arms for real ones and headed up the wall, joining Atlas' garrison in the defense of the city. The storm came ever closer. It's just over the horizon now.)_

-70°C. Chilled bones sung with chattering teeth and the deafening howls of frost all he could hear. Thoughts slowed like slush, breaths froze on face. Knees deep in snow, they lugged forward, glassed eyes stung blind in the dark. Staggered steps stumbling forward, symphony of ice and beating hearts their marching drums. Every hundred feet another went missing, wandered off or collasped. They could no longer muster the breath to say a prayer now, the bodies left to freeze and refrigerate in the cold.

 _How long, a fragmented thought arose. How long have they... why...?_

His body felt so numb, so heavy, arms hugged tight to his chest as he could barely able to muster the strength to limp forward. Shadow surrounded him. Darkness of winter. His eyelid blinked. They felt so heavy. Cold. Too cold.

Blue eyes snapped open, and gazed around. Red eyes circled them. Leering, predatory. Determined to claim what the cold yet not.

 _(An eye for an eye. A debt for a debt. He swore on the grave of an old friend. Help will come.)_

A promise... yes, a promise. The thought crawled up his mind. "Help is coming." The knight breathed out, the promise frozen in a crystal mist of ice particles. He pulled Crocea Mors out, frozen metal biting into his hands. Others followed suit. A hoarse warcry escaped his throat. "Help will come!"

 _(It was on this forlorn, forsaken hope that the Atlesian had held on. They just need to hold on for another day. The stalwart defender proclaimed. Help is coming and all they needed to do was hold out. Another day then another. Time bought with blood and lives, time for help to arrive, time to dig in further and further as mines dug deeper into the crust of earth, mining out Dust and vaults of shelter. It was warmer underground.)_

 _Bang... bang... bang..._ muffled gunshots lost in the hailing winds. Dust ignited in closed-off chambers, hurtling their charge forward along rifled barrels toward their destinations. _Clang... clang... clang..._ blades clashed with fangs, metals with darkness. The song of combat sung in his ears, and Death danced with him. He could still see her eyes, as his own laid frosted. Just a different form, red not silver. Her cold pale hands guided his blade to their marks, firm yet gentle like the first time they touched. She guided him to duck. Weave, spun. Thrust sheath up, claws slid on iced metal which cracked and hissed. She guided his arms forward. Black ichor splattered onto his skin, hot and steaming. A beastial growl escaped two throats at once. A swift kick turned one to gags, then dust. More Grimm came. Shaking hands gripped onto the hilt of arms tighter.

 _("Form up!" He remember saying that shout not for the first stand. "We make out stand here!" He shouted it again once more time. Not for the first time that all the brilliance and skill and sparks of genius, all of the tactics and strategies and luck means nothing. All once again comes down to this: the strength of men that dared to stand firm, whether with feet of clay or frosted in ice.)_

Viscera sprayed from torn open veins. Bloody ichor like sweet nectar, steaming ruby and onyx gems rained amidst the snow and cooling corpses. Unrelenting assault, continuous strikes unbroken despite tendons tearing in frost. Men rallied behind his back. Red and black blood spilled as a wall of assorted weaponries pushed forward by flesh and aura into the tide of black fur, like drowning men struggling agaisnt the might of the sea, men and women swimming upstream a river of blood. Grimm's, and their own.

Howls of wind hid the enemy till they were too close, Dust that refused to ignite in with a fizz. Frostbitten arms reacted too slow, soul fire not enough to thaw out the frost in bones. Defiant eyes stared up at the beasts that would take their lives, a warcry that died in ripped throat. Bodies littered the icy snow, bodies that does not disappear into acrid smokes. Bodies so white they melded into the snow beneath, as the tiny circle tightened and tightened, like the noose around the neck of a prisoner.

 _(Again it was not enough. Never enough.)_

"TAKE THIS!" The mechanic shouted, almost knocking him over when he shoved something into his hands. A huge and burly miss-match of metal components surrounding a Dust crystal the size of a football... A fuel core...

Jaune Arc did not wait for him to finish. He just knew what to do. Pumping every last drop of aura into that red crystal, till it burnt hot in his hand like a lump of coal, he took sprint. Forward.

 _(No... this is wrong... the old man stirred in his seqt.)_

Claws ripped and bite at him, trying to tear him from the ball. Too late. Power reached critical charge. A sneering smirk grew on the suicidal man's face. Red fire poured from the crack that spreaded on the ball, until the entire surface was red.

A pinprick of a second later, ice turned to fire.

 _(This is wrong-!)_

Aura shattered. The fire burnt his skin. Body parts flung into the air, black and red streaks in the blue-ish white background. Howls shrieked all around, and no one was pinning him down. Darkness was washed away by blinding light, scampered away back to the dark fog they rose from. Before the ice beneath them cracked.

 _No-!_

The ground splitted under him, dragging him down with it. Fire winked out under the icy waters. His combat gears pulled him down further to his watery grave the more he flailed, his blistering skin quick-cooled as the melted metal plates melded to his skin as he tried to scream. _No no no no-!_ His scream went unheard as arctic water filled his lungs, thick like ink. Pain, agonizing and uncontrolable cut through his bones and flesh worse than any winter night. He writhed, flailed, and all he did was sunk, sunk, _sunk_ -

( _This wasn't what happened-!)_

Black rings replace the tide of furs and teeth in his vision. He felt Death's arms softly wrap around his neck. His last breath came out, bubbles of air floating upward in the icy pond. His struggle ceased. The dim light above recede...d... so far... a...way.

Eyelids dipped down.

 _Darkness._

 _('Comm'on, Jaune. Wake up.')_

Blue eyes shot open in the coldness and silence. _Where-?_

 _('Wake up.')_

The words rang out again, softly beckoning him to look up.

 _Who...?_

Death's pale hand pulled him deeper, beckoning him to cease his senseless struggle.

 _('Comm'on.' A visage of a smile. Eyes filled with warmth, voice with kindness. 'Don't sleep like this.')_

A hand reached out for him in the dark. A single spot of light shone bright, the spot that had led him forward. A hand, a single thread, his lifeline. Her hand, stronger than the grip of death herself.

His heart beat in his chest, warm blood fighting agaisnt the creeping cold.

All this time he had thought forgotten.

 _('You're gonna catch a cold if you sleep like this, Jaune.')_

Jaune reached out, grasping and never let go again. He pulled, and somehow the surface became closer to him despite what was weighing him down. He pulled, and pulled, and-

 _(Blue eyes broke the surface of the icy pond. Jaune Arc woke up. He was sitting on a train.)_

* * *

 _A/N:_ As you can see, this chapter took quite heavy inspiration by Frostpunk, an awesome video game by 11-bit Studio, the trailer rap by Stupendium and ten days in Canada without a sweater or even a jacket. They're _awesome (_ except the forgetting to pack sweaters part), I say it again, and totally should be tried.

 _Svartenvinter:_ Blackest Winter, in broken Nordic, courtesy of Google translate.


	3. Chapter 3: Vale Central

_**Dream.**_

 ** _Summary_ :** Dead men don't dream. They remember.

 _ **Tags**_ : future!AU, Grimm War, dark, old Jaune Arc remembering his past.

 ** _Disclaimer: I own nothing. RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth and the blessed Monty Oum. This is merely a fanwork, and my only profit from this is practice in writings and self-amusement._**

* * *

 _Chapter 03: Vale Central_

* * *

Noises. Sounds. A crowded train platform, packed full of life from all far and near. Light shone through dome of glass, shining on the nest of bipedals below shuffling to and fro, of all colors and shapes and sizes.

"All passengers arriving at Vale Central Station, please follow the yellow line to the nearest security checkpoint for mandatory inspection. All passengers departing, please follow the red line..." The intercom spoke, a monotone and soulless voice of a recorded playback, heedless of whether it was being heard. His ears rung with tinnitus, the static hissings of electric cables and whistle of bells brought back to the forefront of his mind the song of shells whistling in the air and artillery strikes that hit too close. Wheels grinding on steel rails turned into tracks, and the rail tar-pitched flesh and ichor.

Blue eyes blinked, and the ringings remained. Vibrant life of all shapes and forms, noises and sounds; a liveliness too dizzying, assaulting his mind and senses. It put him on edge, the comparison between this and a nest of Grimm instantly drawn in his mind before being squashed away with a conscious effort. Then there was the air. It reeked of the bitterness of ashes and smog, long after the dust of war had settled. Engine oil and flakes of iron. Dormant, spent Dust floated thick in the air, so thick just a bit of aura could cover his fingertips with an ashen layer of that white ash, so thick he could not just smell but taste it. Blue eyes curiously stared at his covered palm, the fine dust sliding between his hand's crevices. At least he no longer need a gasmask to breath in the polluted air. The man let his free hand fall back to the trusty pommel of his sword. Not that it would help any more.

The yellow lines on the overly white station floor joined, before splitting again. Snaking lines of people with heavy luggages or children in tow, guided by thin bands of yellow. He remembered something like this, at both a land of snow and one of forest, at a checkpoint justlike this. Contrary to a memory that flashed before his eyes, the line was orderly, the people in it at ease - or as much ease as one could before such a long line of wait. There was no rush, no hurry, none that extends beyond running late for a meeting or reunion with loved ones. There was no haste in their gait, or panic in their eyes. No pushing, screamings or hushed whispers of worry. No ragged clothings, torn luggages spilling with belongings, stricken expressions or eyes puffy and haunted lifeless or filled with just the simple relief of arriving in one of the few safezones left in all of Remnant. There was, now, just ordinary people, living in a time of... peace. More or less.

Jaune Arc stepped into the line, and began the wait. His hand raised to pull the cap he was wearing low to his face. The High Council had wanted to make sure there would be no repeat of Beacon's Breach or worse, the Second Raid of Mistral thus the normally annoyable process was exacerbated to a long and arduous process that only a scant few are exempt to; consisting of an individual scan of each of your worn and carried items, your luggages unpacked and searched for any hidden or potential weapon before you are stripped naked for close-up scans, and that's before X-ray scan, Infestor check, health check and whole other pthelora of processes designed to root out 'Grimm cultists', or something like that.

Most of them had been pointedly ignored by customs officers in the extreme influx of refugees during the War.

But now there was peace, and there was no more reason for such actions. He was no longer even an active Huntsman, or high-level military personel, and thus, Jaune Arc could only wait, and it would be a very long one. Or it would be, perhaps, if not for the rather panicky person in the drab blue garb of custom security stammering and undoing the yellow ribbon to allow him exit from the line.

"Ah- Sir! Follow me, p-please." The man managed out, his nervous, waggling hand pointed at the special check-in counter. This action caught the notice of many surrounding passengers. Their eyes widened in recognition, and murmurs broke out amongst the few standing near him. Or maybe it was just the sight of Crocea Mors. With a raised eyebrow and a held back sigh for getting spotted, he allowed himself to be lead away.

 _Hey, is that... Paladin Arc?_

 _No way, that's him?_

 _You sure it is him? I don't remember him having grey hair... does he?_

 _Maybe, I saw some news a few days ago about him retiring or somethin'..._

 _Com'mon, it can't be. Paladin Arc's 50-60 something, right? There's no way he's that guy, he looks so... old!_

58\. The man held back another inconsequental sigh at that constant reminder.

He was lead to the exempt line, to a much smaller booth consisting of only a simple metal detector (hah, the irony of scanning for metal on a huntsman!) and a simple check-in table seated with a single custom officer.

To his surprise, someone was waiting for him at the counter. More to his surprise, that someone snapped to a salute as soon as he saw him.

"General Arc, Sir!" Said the man in the blue drab with the orange bandolier of head custom officer. There was something he couldn't quite place, a passing familiarity with the man. A face he could attach to a name, if he were to try to remember.

"At ease, soldier." A wry smile found its way past his ever-scowling visage, and he waved back a tired, if humored, salute. He remembered now, a face freshly out of New Beacon some ten years back. A young kid with more guts than any actual talent, spurred to take up arms by tales of heroics and propaganda without prepare for the horrors of a battlefield. "Why, Jonas, I'm no longer your commanding officer." Not for a very long time.

"Your ID, please. And you still are to me, sir." The man resolutely nodded, standing at attention even as he passed the card to the finicky officer who nervously typed into the computer. Confident and leader-like. Much unlike the pose he held inside Jaune's office after his first battle.

"This is a serious breach of regulations, you know." Jaune said in half-jest as he walked through the metal scanner, which surprisingly did not wail out in sheer horror. He remembered talking to the shell-strucken kid, advising him to leave such a hellish place as this and back behind the safer walls of Vale.

"I do, sir." He remembered that kid finding his backbone and started talking back, fire in eyes reliting, burning through the glazed curtains as he refused to leave where he was needed most. "But if I had once said to the Council where they can shove that regulations in face of a crisis, well, I surely wouldn't hesitate to say that again in face of you, sir."

He remembered reassigning that kid back to Vale with a recommendation letter.

"Ha." Jaune Arc laughed. A true laugh that rarely ever came through, and even harder to be the receiver of but Jonas did. "Knew you'd do good, son."

"Thank you, sir. I really mean it." The man smiled proudly, handing him back his ID before snapping to a salute again. "And your papers' done, sir. You may pass now."

Jaune Arc saluted back with a smile, before he passed the checkpoint. That little smile remained on his lips for a while longer until he had exited the station.

The smell of ashes only thickened; a cool breeze blew on his skin. At least, it was not snowing.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit short. Shout-out to Sanditos96 for putting up with my endless changes and ramblings, dude ;)

Cheerios! And have a nice one.

-P


	4. Chapter 4: ghost

_**Dream.**_

 ** _Summary_ :** Dead men don't dream. They remember.

 _ **Tags**_ : future!AU, Grimm War.

 ** _Disclaimer: I own nothing. RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth and the blessed Monty Oum. This is merely a fanwork, and my only profit from this is practice in writings and self-amusement._**

* * *

 _Chapter 04: ghost._

* * *

" _Say, Jaune. Have you ever liked it when it snowed?"_

* * *

It's been a few years.

A man stood outside Vale Central. Pedestrians passed by him, in all the colorful garbs of a coming winter.

* * *

" _Uh... No... Not really. It doesn't snow much where I lived, or at all... But... Why?"_

* * *

Like a ghost the old man's soft pads traveled down the gray sidewalk, revisiting the memories when he was 'alive'. But unlike most ghosts, he was noticed and seen, inviting the occasional curious eyes and widened gazes. His wandering owns glanced around. Focused, but at ease. He had only came back here once in the last twenty years. One more time before that, one last time when the 'he' had been 'they'.

* * *

 _There was no answer to 'why', the question left to hung in the chill of a late afternoon. Her mouth hung half-open, breathing out a cloud of white mist into the air before closing. Silver eyes reflected the color of a gray-blue sky, filled with child-like wonder as she stared at the white particles that drifted down without a sound, before landing on her out-stretched hand._

* * *

The city has changed much since the last time he had been here, no longer standing under shadows of rotten, jutting bones from the carcass of a colossus. Those decayed towers of concrete and bricks had been rooted out, replaced with shining spires of glass and metal that pierced into the sky. Light touched and bent, divided and reflected on those surfaces, coronas that shone and glimmered. Light burnt through darkness, like promises of rebirth, piercing a curtain of noises and sound and a veil of smog that lingered in the air. The veil was silken, like a thin white stripe that weaved itself in the gentle breeze, no longer tasting like sulfur or ash but just a slight smoky whiff. The white shadow, unseen or perhaps just unnoticed by those too used to it, danced between people, between street poles and trees, carrying the echoes of soft laughters as it pulled at his free hand. The old man stood in place, feeling the pull that was not there, glancing down at his gloved hands, of flesh and steel that should not - could not - be feeling those. The tug strengthened. A tease, a call to follow. Weary feet walked onward, answering that call.

* * *

 _Aura flowed, and a silver glow briefly washed over her out-stretched hand. The particle stayed for a few brief moments, dancing and giving off a dim glitter on top of the pale, slender palm before completely dissipating. Silver eyes fell with her hand, like curtains that wanted to pull close on whirling thoughts that slipped out the hairline crack on her pink lips._

 _"I used to. And still do."_

 _The man sat, patiently listening to the staccato notes that escaped. A small part of his mind wondered what she meant by the past tense used and its followed addendum, but another already knew._

 _It's the same reason that he hate the colors of the setting sun._

* * *

The ghost of a hand pulled him along a road that he could not quite recognize till the glimmering silhouttes of taller spires had been replaced by the more colorful lights and storefronts - the last time he had seen it was different. Then, it was strewn with rubbles and broken furnitures pushed together once to create makeshift fences being picked over by scavengers and soldiers alike, in a few spots barbed wires and hastily dug trenches being filled in to make room for reconstruction. Even within the relative peace and safety of the city then, he had walked with one wary eye behind the back of his head as he carefully but purposefully trodded down that street instead of crouching low in the darkness of night. Now, the eye is still there but more to pick out the waiting pickpockets than sleek black shadows of the Grimm. His steps remained weary nonetheless, for he knew he was lost.

"You don't know where you are leading us, do you?" The old man mouthed, a whisper of a smile on his lips. If someone could hear the stifled, troubled giggles that played in his ears, they made no sign.

His boots made clicking noises on concrete pavement, a dirty wrought iron grey with off-colored spots of lighter gray. Above, the old dirt-red structures of once near-endless rows of brick houses and stores were now intermingled with the sterile white of prefabricated apartments - multi-purpose hab-blocks, as they are called. Transparent viewing glasses displayed proudly the products inside. He wasn't quite interested, only giving a quick glance of curiosity, on displays of a lifestyle he felt almost foreign to. He hid a secret shiver at the sight of something labeled 'Summer trunks!', fearing what could happen to him had he been a few years younger now.

... _on second thought, let's not think about that._

Jaune stopped before a traffic light, waiting for it to turn red so that he could cross to the other side. Somehow, that wait just seemed so long before it was over. He turned to stare at the colors. The unseen hand nudged at his memories, with the curious scent of flower planted by the road side. Vermilion tulips seemed to bloom in the mid-noon sunlight, the brilliant shade of red oak leaves at end of Fall mixed with green grass that stubbornly refused to yield. Strange, there wasn't any rose, nor sunflower. The scent seemed to come from elsewhere, another spot down this winding street.

The light blinked red. Cars and bikes stopped in front of a white line, and pedestrians resumed their walk. He took off again, this time with more haste in his feet.

* * *

 _"I just hate the death that comes with it."_

 _Silence returned as the white particles continued to drift downward. It's not snow, it doesn't snow in June. Just bone white Dust, used and discarded, lazily falling down in the chilly air always just before it rained._

* * *

Orange. Red. White, pink and blue. He was led to a corner down several streets, where the air was cooler and more humid. An automated spray filled the air with thousands of little water particles that glittered in the breeze.

Sunflower. Roses. Lily, lotus and blue crocus, packed knitly on display on a plant pot stand, each blooming under the gentle August sun and releasing their scent into the gentle breeze.

 _-A florist shop!_

Then Jaune's eyes involuntarily twitched when he spotted the yellow sign displaying the shop's name in proud, bold letters: KaBloom.

Shaking off his abhorrence at the terrible pun, he approached the tinted glass door of the shop with the words 'Open'. Through the looking glass, he could spot the owner standing with her gloved hands on her hips, graying platinum hair tied to a bun as she examined a batch of fresh flowers. A sudden wave of familiarity washed over his mind, like subtle bells warning him of unseen dangers. It did not stop him. The door bell chimed, and the old knight hesitantly stepped inside.

"Welcome to KaBloom flower shop! How may I help-" The woman swiveled around, then turned frigid.

Blue eyes stared at lilacs.

In a few short moments, a myriads of emotions showed on her face at once. Surprise. Joy. Regret, another surge of Happiness before even more Surprise came.

Then _Murder_.

A weak smile. A friendly wave. A nervous sweat broke on his back.

"Hey, Yang- uff!"

An iron fist inside a rubber glove made contact with his nose. Needless to say, he did not remain standing after that.

* * *

" _Still... It's beautiful, isn't it?" Her twinkling eyes hid the weariness from just moments before. On her face was her best attempt at a cheerful smile that was ever present._

 _His lips could only twitch upward, cracking open to speak out his agreement. She grinned, they shared a laugh. Moments later a crack of thunder broke in the distance, signaling the coming of a mid-summer monsoon._

 _"Come on. Let's find some shelter before it rains."_

* * *

A/N: A bit of levity, for now.

Thanks to my friend Sandiiitos96 for beta-ing.


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